Do you have any James and Harry headcanons (au/canon/otherwise)? I just suddenly have papa James feelings.
Cried more than Lily did the day Harry was born
Played peek-a-boo using the invisibility cloak until it backfired when Harry tried to do it back and James had to chase his son’s giggling disembodied voice around the living room for an hour
Put his spare pair of glasses on Harry and dressed him in similar clothes so they could both make the same face at Lily to make her laugh
Was allergic to carrots but they were Harry’s preferred snack and his son loved to smear his hands on his father’s face at meal times so often a grumpy, splotchy-faced James would hand the baby over to Lily for nap time
Doodled enchanted snitches on Harry’s nappies before he changed him so Harry would sometimes giggle and roll over trying to catch them
Liked to take bubble baths but could not get through one without being interrupted by wife, cat and baby so eventually gives in and shares with them
Definitely set Harry in competitions against the cat
Pretended not to cry when Harry said Dada for the first time
Called Harry by 10,000 things that were not his name “pygmy puff”, “sir poos-a-lot”, “eugene”
Could often be found walking around the house with a child attached firmly to his ankle
Freaked out and owled Sirius for pepper-up potion every time the baby so much as coughed
Kissed Lily so often that Harry assumed it was a kind of “hello” so every parent, uncle and pet could not enter a room without pausing to let baby Harry kiss their cheek
Made a huge deal about every holiday because even if they could only celebrate among themselves he made damn sure his son was having a good childhood
Once there was a deer called stag. A white breasted, a many pointed. He refused to still when he halted, the hooves in his mind were always lifted. Everything comes close, the branches slide. In a clearing made of cleavings, stag sees another stag. They watch each other, they share no story. I will not cross you and you must move on. There is nothing else. It reminds me of some tale, stay with me to remember, it reminds me of where I was going without you.
The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination.
All night the wind blows through the trees. It makes a sound.
The hunter’s son watches the hunter. The hunter paints more rings on his glasses. Everything is a target, says the hunter. No matter where you look. The hunter’s son says nothing, and closes his eyes.
The hunter’s son watches the stag.
Clench is a hand word. His hand is clenched. Door with a bad hinge, it wouldn’t open. Do not let go of the arrow, let it slip through your fingers as you relax your grip. This is good advice. He couldn’t do it. There is no way to get to the future from here.
The key to archery is sustained attention. An arrow is a stick with feathers, an extension of the mind. Men and their thoughts, their quivers and their arrows: it helps to see how these things move, and where they land.
The stag watches the hunter’s son.
This is a story of loops, at least one. I stepped off the loop. I spent time listening, testing realms. I snapped a twig in my head and struck out. You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.
All night the trees stand silent in the dark, not touching.
I put on the deer suit. I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between. This is the testimony of the deer: solitude, the long corridors, love from a distance. You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of. One house, two house. The road goes away from here.
Even if neither of them ever particularly liked the fact, to put
He loved her bony knees knocking against each other as she
valiantly wrapped an arm around a fellow first year on the verge of hysterics,
assuring her in a trembling voice no, Alice, they are not going to
set dragons on us, I promise
He loved her ridiculously delicate fingers twirling her wand
as she swished and flicked and successfully made the quill float up and fly
right into his—ow Evans I told you my left nostril is sensitive you meanie
He loved her pulling faces at her crystal ball when the
teacher wasn’t looking and scribbling down outrageous predictions in her bright
red notebook like Professor! The ball says this classroom is going to be
flooded in 3-5 days so wouldn’t it be better if lessons were off for the week?
while good ol’ Mrs. Treble nodded her head shakily and sent them off,
sniggering behind their hands
He loved her trying to straighten her hair for the ball in
fourth year and somehow ending up with two and a half foot-long spikes all over
her head but who cared because she looked fucking fabulous anyway and why,
Evans you do look rather sharp tonight do you want to go—NOT MY HAIR
TOO YOU UTTER HAG
He loved her blazing eyes as she walked away from the best
friend who’d called her a Mudblood, feet crunching on the scarlet shards of her
He loved her waving off the blush that crept onto her cheeks
every time he spoke to her in sixth year by claiming she was allergic to him go
away Potter you’re setting me off again
He loved her when she grabbed his collar and snogged his
face off in front of the entire student population of Hogwarts and a highly
amused professors’ table there Minnie now cough up
He loved her when she burst into loud noisy sobs after he
proposed and had to be force-fed Calming Draught by a hysterical Sirius as she
tried to choke out a coherent yes good luck with this one Prongs don’t you
come crying to me
He loved her when she took him aside after their vows and
told him she was pregnant as nonchalantly as she could manage without giving
away the tremble in her eyes but bloody fucking hell he was going to be a dad TOLD
YA I’D HAVE YOUR BABY SOMEDAY EVANS *fistpump*
He loved her when she stayed up for two nights straight and
wouldn’t let him in their bedroom and then Hallowe’en morning their son greeted
him in a baby stag costume, antlers and all because did I tell you you’re
the best wife ever Evans would you look at his precious little tail
His aunt gave a sigh. “And speaking of the Seven, why would Cersei permit the Faith to arm again?” Jaime shrugged. “I am certain she had reasons.” “Reasons?” Lady Genna made a rude noise. “They had best be good reasons. The Swords and Stars troubled even the Targaryens. The Conqueror himself tread carefully with the Faith, so they would not oppose him. And when Aegon died and the lords rose up against his sons, both orders were in the thick of that rebellion. The more pious lords supported them, and many of the smallfolk. King Maegor finally had to put a bounty on them. He paid a dragon for the head of any unrepentant Warrior’s Son, and a silver stag for the scalp of a Poor Fellow, if I recall my history. Thousands were slain, but nigh as many still roamed the realm, defiant, until the Iron Throne slew Maegor and King Jaehaerys agreed to pardon all those who would set aside their swords.”
“I am angry. Shame has naught to do with it,” Tywin replies. Even to speak of shame would bring unpardonable shame to Lannister name and pride.
“I would be both, if it were my father. Angry and ashamed both,” Aerys continues.
“Why should you be ashamed at all?” Steffon asks.
What does Steffon know of shame?Nothing at all, Tywin thinks, irritated by Steffon’s question. His father struts in court, a trusted member of the king’s council and the king’s own good-son besides, while Tywin’s father makes such a botch of ruling his own lands such that the king has to send his knights to restore peace and order in the westerlands. And who does His Grace appoint to lead those knights if not his trusted good-son Lord Baratheon? A stag roaming the westerlands under the dragon banners, all because that slumbering lion in Casterly Rock Tywin has to call “my lord father” is toothless and clawless, weak and pride-less.
In his grandfather’s days, such a travesty would never have occurred. Gerold the Golden would never have brought such shame, ridicule and dishonor to House Lannister.
Steffon does not understand. He could never understand. He adores his father; too young to know any better, perhaps, but also by accident of birth fortunate enough to be spared the indignities of being the progeny of a father such as Lord Tytos.
Aerys pretends to understand. Aerys who claims to find his own father unsatisfactory in many ways.
“He’ll return safely, won’t he? My father,” Steffon frets, and he seems his real age for once, not the boy who is always trying to act and sound older than he is because his two closest companions are two and four years older, respectively.
“He’ll be safe enough. It’s not a real war,”Aerys says. “Only some outlaws and brigands.”
Outlaws and brigands have swords that can kill all the same, Tywin thinks.
And young as he is, Steffon knows this too.
This is what comes of adoring, of loving. The fear of losing.